Laqueum
by Appassionata
Summary: A follow-up, or sequel if you will, to Cold. A more in-depth look at Hannibal Lecter's son.
1. Default Chapter

Laqueum [Latin for "noose"]

Author's notes: I know the spacing is wonky, but I can't figure out how to fix it. This is rated PG-13 simply because he's Hannibal Lecter's son and there may be violence later in the story. Thanks, and enjoy!

The tape recorder started. The young man was as jumpy as a marble in a can of spray paint as he held it. He cleared his throat. 

The bars that separated him from his subject were extremely close together, so much so that not even the smallest man's hand could fit between them. This was done on purpose. 

In front of him, the subject opened his eyes. He was seated in a bolted-down chair, his elbows resting on his knees and his fingers steepled, head tilted just slightly upward like a newborn looking for the sun. 

Even the eyes of the young boy betrayed how different from the world he was. His pupils were the deepest of blacks, seeming all seeing to the wary detective. The color of the irises, too, was astounding – a green like he'd never seen before, a far cry from the muted emerald of most 'green' eyes; rather, this one's eyes were so deep, so dark, so bottomless and so green that they appeared nearly black. 

Clearing his throat again, the detective began his questioning, 

"Carmine, I mean, Mr. Lecter, sir, I," he started, but was abruptly cut off by a voice that was slightly raspy from not being used, slightly accented from its owner having grown up speaking more than one language.

"No. Not you, me. What you want is from me. You're not here to do anything but spew questions at me. You think you're such a good detective. That's the reason they sent you here, isn't it? Let the esteemed 'detective of all detectives' interview the killer's son. I'll tell you the truth, my poor misguided gumshoe. You're here because they hate you. They're laughing at you right now. You are the unarmed gladiator in the lion's cage."

With that speech over, the boy sat back in his chair and crossed his legs at the ankles. 

Again the detective cleared his throat and said shakily,

"Yes, well. I came to ask you a few things about," But again he was interrupted.

"About what? About my father, no doubt. What's it like being the son of a killer? What's it like having killed someone? What's it like to wake up every day and know you are a monster? That _is_ what you were going to ask, isn't it? And how do you want me to answer? Would you have me make some intelligent quip about fava beans and a nice Chianti? Shall I recite Shakespeare in Latin, sing my mother's favorite song in Italian? Or would it please you to see me stand on this chair and flap my arms, crow towards the sun I can't see and haven't seen for two years, just so you and your cronies can prove to the world how truly insane I am? 

"If that's what you want, I am afraid you will be sorely disappointed."

The detective was downright terrified at this point. He stared at the boy, aghast.

"No, Mr. Lecter, I'm doing a paper and I just wanted some information from you…" He trailed off.

The teenager in front of him leaned forward, his own intelligent eyes peering into those of the detective.

"Continue. What kind of information are you looking for, Officer? I can speak three languages, write in two of them, sing in all of them…I would have graduated high school at least a year ago. I skipped third grade. What information could you want that I do not possess?"

The detective inhaled slowly, then exhaled before asking his shaky-voiced question.

"I want to know about…your girlfriend."

In an instant, the boy had leapt up and was clinging to the bars of his 'cage,' staring into the detective's face.

"You want to know about _who_?" His raspy voice hissed. His green eyes had narrowed to mere pebbles of jade. 

When the boy had moved, the detective had, in turn, leapt back. He began speaking, but his voice was barely a squeak. He cleared his throat and tried again.

"Your girlfriend…Michelle. I want to know about her."  
But the boy had already turned away, his back towards the detective. His nimble hands were clenched at his sides, the tendons in his wrists standing out. The gumshoe had affected the boy by speaking that name. He could see the tension in the boy's stance.

"But Michelle is dead." The boy spoke softly, in an even, smooth voice. "Why would you want to know about her? She's dead and gone, my friend. She matters to no one."

With a shaking hand, the detective made a scribbling note that the subject appeared eerily calm when speaking of his late girlfriend. The detective spoke again, in a voice one would use when speaking to mentally challenged kindergarteners. 

"Yes, Michelle is dead, Mr. Lecter. Do you know what happened to her?"

The boy whipped around, his chestnut hair sliding over his shoulders and rebounding on his pale cheeks.

"Do not patronize me, detective." He growled in a voice several octaves lower than the one the detective had heard only moments ago. "I know what happened to Michelle Amanda Sullivan. I killed her."


	2. Reminiscing

"You...ah, that is, right. I know you killed her." The detective fumbled for something intelligent to say, but it was in vain. His subject had already returned to his seat and was sitting quietly with a distant look in his eyes. In fact, he was remembering something from perhaps three, maybe four years prior.  
  
Across the courtyard, yes, there. Loosely curled, superbly styled black hair glinting in the sunlight. Heavily made-up eyelashes batting, gaze nowhere near that of her secret admirer.  
Shelly Sullivan. He knew her only as Michelle. He knew she was beautiful, and completely untouchable - a goddess on a pedestal. He was the loser, the loner, the one people were frantic to avoid in close hallways, the one who was always somehow at the top of the class and who was hated for it.   
At once, the bell rang, grating nerves and spurring lackluster students into slouching, slumping, feet-dragging motion. The boy was immediately jostled by the indifferent crowd, pushed up against a wall for the barest of moments before being swept up in the torrent of teenagers glumly shuffling to their next classes. He sighed inwardly. He was headed to history, a class that, he felt, no student should have immediately after lunch. It was far too easy to doze off, listening to Mr. Shinski's dull monotone voice. It also meant he would have no more classes with the goddess, the idol, the perfection embodied known as Shelly Sullivan. He had seventh period math, meaning he was in the meager, 20-student honors class, while dearest Shelly took math early in the morning - second period, if he was remembering right, placing her in the most basic of geometry classes.  
He raised his head, craning his neck and trying desperately to spot Shelly scuffling off to her physical education class as the hall cleared. But his search was fruitless; she was gone.   
He turned left and practically ran down the hallway, realizing he was about to be late for Mr. Shinski's class. Monotone voice though he had, Mr. Albert Shinski had almost no sense of humor, and along with this fact came the reality that he also had no tolerance for latecomers. Carmine had just slammed the classroom door behind him and taken a seat at desk number twenty-three, far in the back of the room, when the bell rang. Meeting his teacher's annoyed glare, he smiled pleasantly in response. The rest of the students snickered, but only because of Carmine's near misfortune.  
Laugh at him? Certainly.  
Laugh with him? Never.  
In the blink of an eye - and that's a very, very long blink, for reference - the school day was over. Against better judgment (and school rules), Carmine slipped out one of the school's side doors to avoid the large crowd of people pushing towards the main entrance, shoving every which way and not caring who they trampled.   
Unlike some of his classmates, Carmine could not yet drive, and thus was still picked up by his housewife mother every afternoon, at 2:45 sharp or she started to get worried.   
Maria Salvatore was quite used to her son being quiet, but today he seemed unusually dejected. He was slumped over in his seat, his black backpack resting across his denim-clad knees and his unusual green eyes unfocused, left hand pressed against the window.  
"How was your day, dear?" She asked quietly, easing her old Ford station wagon out of her parking place.  
"Ehnn." He responded, a noncommittal noise, trying to convey to his mother that he was not in the mood to converse.  
"Do you have a lot of homework?" She asked doubtfully, trying once more to strike up a conversation with the practically mute boy.  
"Not much." He responded absently. He then blinked, his forest-green eyes darting to her for the barest of moments. "What time's gym tonight?"  
Maria paused, thought.   
"Five to seven, I think. We'll pick up dinner on the way home, if you want. Daddy won't be home until later - he's working overtime today."  
Carmine just nodded. This was the constant routine; these were the questions that were comfortable to ask because there was always an answer to them. In fact he had no homework; he had a habit of completing his calculus assignments in class, and his English teacher was always very skimpy with homework, preferring to talk at her students - not with them, mind you - for the entire forty-five minutes. 


End file.
